Aftermath
by Ebm36
Summary: Set between ep 1 and ep 2 of s3 My thanks go to my friend Kirasum (because without her I wouldn't have tried to write -alone- in English) and to my favourite authors of ff. My proofreader doesn't want me to mention her work... oops, too late! Athos realises something and it makes him very sad and anxious ...


Athos had barely slept. He had worked late into the night waiting for cooler air to enter his office but it never came, Paris was under a lid of unbearable heat. He had ended up sleeping on his chair, the folds of the papers he was working on embedded in his left cheek, his hair a mess of too long matted curls, his eyes bloodshot without the help of wine and his shirt clinging to his painful spine.

He stood up stretching his neck, his back and his limbs. He felt heavy, stiff and … and what? He couldn't name the feeling which was growing inside him, in his heart, in his mind. A lump formed in his throat which menaced to choke him.

He slowly made his way towards the door which he had left ajar during the night even if it wasn't very secure in such a difficult and dangerous period. The blackbird perched on the railing which had woken him from his restless slumber fled with an outraged cry.

Athos stepped onto the balcony and gripped the balustrade with both hands. He squeezed his eyes shut against the already bright sun and against the anxiety which began to overwhelm him. He gripped the wood even more tightly, his nails carving it.

 _What's the matter with me? What a solid captain! What a fearful warrior!_

A warrior. Indeed, that was what he had been for the past years, a fierce warrior, he had let himself be carried by the terrifying stream of this insane war, he had managed not to drown in blood, fear, violence and loss and now … now, he felt empty, useless and …

He tried to calm down, breathing in deeply the sugary smells of this early morning of June. From the cemetery, at the back of the garrison, the sweet scents of the lime-tree and the honeysuckle covered the heavy smells of manure, dust and metal of the courtyard. A booming laugh followed by a hushed chuckle made him look down towards the table they had used and shared for years now. Porthos and Aramis were there, enjoying their recent reunion, exchanging jokes and friendly slaps on the back. He watched them for a moment, sometimes, they stopped in the middle of their lively conversation and their heads nearly touched as they shared secrets or memories. In these moments their faces lost their cheerful expression to become nostalgic or sad. A brush of a hand on a forearm, fingers curled against the nap of a neck and the smiles were coming back instantly. They were like twins, they were more than brothers, they were the two halves of a same body, of a same soul.

"D'Artagnan, where are you?"

The authoritarian female voice managed to make him smile. Constance had again found her beloved young husband and wasn't ready to let him disappear from her sight. Moreover, during his absence, she had acquired more strength and authority because of her new role in the garrison.

A sudden thought hit Athos and bent him at the waist with nearly as much strength than the hoof of a horse in his stomach. He felt the lump in his throat menacing to burst.

Alone. He realised that he was alone.

He clenched his jaw in an attempt to not let his emotions overwhelm him but it wasn't enough. His eyelids closed again but the pictures which appeared were images of battlefields, amputated limbs, smoke, blood, the terrified unseeing eyes of fallen young men, and … death.

 _Lack of sleep. It's the lack of sleep and the heat._ He tried to reason with himself.

The mingled laughter of Constance and d'Artagnan drew his attention. They were embracing and kissing, straw in their hair, hidden between two sturdy horses.

Athos unconsciously curled his fingers, he still felt the silky fabric of a long pale blue glove under them, he still could smell the wet cold air of that dreadful moment when he had realised that his wife was definitely lost to him.

He clapped a hand to his mouth, his heart beating furiously in his chest, his ribcage feeling too small. He tried to calm down again, went back into his office, sat down on his bed, stood up and paced up and down restlessly, splashed his face with the tepid water in his basin, but nothing worked.

He heard Porthos' laughter again and it was more than he could bear. He rushed out of his office, ran down towards the courtyard, ignoring the questioning looks of Porthos and Aramis, and he went straight into the cemetery at the back of the garrison.

There, he stopped abruptly, the place was quiet, shadowed by a big lime tree whose perfume was slightly intoxicating. He leaned on the wall, his palms and his forehead searching the coolness of the rough stone. He stayed like that for a while, waiting for his heart to slow down, waiting for his eyes to dry. When he opened them, his surroundings seemed misty. He blinked several times until his sight became clearer.

After all the horrors he had seen during these years of war, he would never have expected to be overwhelmed by the mere sight of happiness.

He slowly walked towards the lime-tree and sat down on the bench hidden under its branches. It was more a big stone than a bench and it had almost disappeared under a thick layer of moss. He watched the quiet cemetery where a few graves had been freshly dug , he snorted. How could he be so sorry for himself when young men still died for a war they didn't even understand? Athos ran his fingers through his long hair then put his head in his hands, his elbows on his knees, his face hidden behind a curtain of wild strands. He tried to stifle his emotions, to let the warm wind, ruffling the hair at the base of his neck, calm his nerves, to bask in the quietness of the cemetery. When the lump in his throat swelled enough to choke him, he didn't try anymore, he let his grief leave his body, his lungs aching, his eyes burning.

"Alright, what is it?"

Porthos, he hadn't heard him coming. How long had he been there, standing in front of him?

"Hey, I know you are my Captain, but you can answer nevertheless."

 _Please, Porthos, I can't._

"Somethings happened?"

Athos shook his head.

"Are you drunk?"

Athos shook his head again.

"Alright., can I sit with you?"

Athos nodded and finally opened his mouth. His voice came out broken and fragile, muffled by his hands.

"You should go back to Aramis."

"Aramis? Why? He is a big boy you know, he doesn't need me night and day. He has learnt to live without us."

Athos' shoulders shook but Porthos couldn't tell if it was because of a laugh or a sob. He laid a hand on his friend's neck almost surprised that Athos didn't jump or try to escape the touch. The war had changed him in a strange way. He was more open and tactile and at the same time more distant.

"I am tired, Porthos." Athos whispered leaning against his friend.

Porthos let his hand slide from his neck to grip his shoulder tightly

"I know, but there is something else."

"No, there …"

"There is something else, Athos, don't deny it, I know you. You barely speak … alright, you always barely speak, but ... !"

Athos snorted and Porthos took it as a small victory.

"You rarely join us to drink or eat, you isolate yourself."

Athos' voice came again barely audible but so bitter that Porthos' heart missed a beat.

"No need to isolate myself, I am alone, anyway."

"You are alone?" A young voice asked.

Athos lifted his head from his hands. D'Artagnan was sitting crossed legs on the grass at his feet.

"When … What … ?"

"Can you be more precise, Captain?" D'Artagnan laughed fondly.

"You should go back to Constance." Athos mumbled.

"She threw me out because I had dust on my clothes, straw in my hair and I smell like a horse."

Athos shook his head unable to hide the smile beginning to appear on his lips. A watery smile, but a smile anyway. He wiped his face with his forearm. D'Artagnan laid a hand on his knee, deep dark eyes looking at him with worry.

"You are not alone and as long as you don't want to be alone, you won't be Captain."

Porthos tightened his grip on his shoulder guiding his friend against him. Athos' face suddenly fell.

"I am an incompetent captain. I am not fit to lead anyone. I am tired. I am emotional ... "

"Nonsense." D'Artagnan exclaimed squeezing Athos' knee.

Behind them, they could hear the clashing of swords and the loud voices of their comrades training in the courtyard. Porthos and d'Artagnan felt Athos shiver. He huffed:

"What a Captain I am! Jumping when I hear the sound of swords, when I hear people shouting, when I hear ..." He couldn't finish, his voice broke.

"What we lived through during the war, what we saw, what we did …" Porthos began.

"Two days ago, I felt nauseous at the sight of crushed cherries on Constance's apron. The colour … you know … " D'Artagnan admitted sheepishly.

"I was ready to draw my sword when I heard a crow on the roof this morning." Porthos murmured.

A sudden loud gunshot made them all jump. Athos shivered, d'Artagnan stood up and sat down next to him, gripping his forearm. Porthos chuckled.

"Three Musketeers? No, three scared hens. We have just returned, we all need time to recover, that's all. It's not the first time , it happens."

A second gunshot followed by a scream made Athos want to leave the bench.

"Aramis!" He whispered suddenly anxious and about to rush towards the courtyard.

Porthos tightened his grip on his shoulder and a soft voice came from behind them.

"Here, my friend." Aramis swiftly laid a hand on Athos' head before rounding the bench and kneeling before him. "I am here … "

Athos sagged in relief, and ran his fingers through his hair, ashamed and angry with himself.

"It seems that it's time to admit our failures and our fears." Aramis added looking at his own slightly trembling hands.

Athos fixed his grey-green irises on him and waited until Aramis looked up at him with so much trust that Athos shivered.

"So, I confess that I can't bear the sound of rusty hinges, it reminds me of the gates of the monastery and of … the …"

"I understand, Aramis." Athos whispered lifting his hand which his friend took in his squeezing his fingers almost painfully.

"You are not alone." Porthos said solemnly.

"And you never will be , Captain." D'Artagnan added, his voice low and hushed but firm.

"Never." Aramis concluded, with a gentle smile.

And for the first time in days, Athos didn't feel alone. They would always be there for him, no matter what, as he would always be there for them.

Four parts of the same body, of the same s oul.


End file.
